Facing Facts
by Idan
Summary: Set during 6x2,so spoilers for that. "Red John had taken more than one happy memory away from him. Lisbon's face had long been a source of comfort—perhaps his greatest comfort. Now every time he looked at her, he saw the afterimage of the killer's mark. And yet he couldn't stop looking."


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing in here and am making no money from it.

It had been a long day, but Jane couldn't imagine he would find much rest that night, and from the way Lisbon was delaying leaving her office, he knew she felt the same. He wanted to say something to relax the set of her shoulders and drive that slightly pained look from her eyes, but what was there to say?

_Be careful._

_Next time he won't throw you back._

_The mark means he's coming for you. He'll want to make us live with that for a while. I just don't know how long._

Yeah, none of that was going to do anything except make her feel worse. It wasn't doing anything for him, either.

"Jane. Stop staring at me," she snapped, and he realized he'd been doing it again. The first time, she'd asked, "Do I have something on my face?" and he knew he'd been staring at her precisely because she no longer did. It wasn't as though he needed further study of features he knew as well as his own; he was trying to replace the memory of those bloody streaks with her unmarked skin. It was taking longer than he liked.

"Sorry." He forced himself to close his eyes and rest his head on the back of the couch, and after a few seconds he heard her return to work, her fingers moving on the keyboard a little slower than usual.

He thought about her face in the hospital, pale and clean, without her accustomed makeup. It reminded him of the early days of their acquaintance, when she had cared less about her appearance and he'd had more opportunities to count her freckles.

Red John had taken more than one happy memory away from him. Lisbon's face had long been a source of comfort—perhaps his greatest comfort. Now every time he looked at her, he saw the afterimage of the killer's mark. And yet he couldn't stop looking.

Maybe that was the point.

Her soft voice startled him out of his reverie. "Where are you sleeping tonight?"

It was such an unexpected question that he paused before answering. "I was thinking maybe right here."

"Don't stay in the office tonight."

"Why?" Looking closely, he could see the fear trying to take hold of her, but she beat it back and sat up a little straighter under his scrutiny.

"I...I had a nightmare. In the hospital. About finding all of you dead in the bullpen. I don't want you to stay here tonight."

"All right." It was a small thing for her to ask, considering. And she was bound to have nightmares already, without him adding to her worries. "I'll go to my motel room."

"Good." She went back to work, but the crease between her eyebrows didn't ease.  
"The nightmares will go away," he said gently. "But until they do, the best thing is to have someone there when you wake up, or someone you can call. I won't sleep tonight, so call me if you want to."

"Is that why you sleep during the day? So there's someone here if you have a nightmare?" She sounded curious.

"A lot of someones, generally," he smiled. "It does help."

She was looking at him like he was a scrawny stray she'd found in the rain. It wasn't one of his favorite looks, but it was better than the slightly shell-shocked one she'd been wearing most of the day when she thought no one was looking. She'd been looking to him for comfort since she'd woken in the hospital, he thought, though she had no idea she was doing it. He wished he could get away with stroking her hair again; they would both find that relaxing.

Other than that, he really had no comfort to give her, no matter how much he wished to.

"You look exhausted," she said, surprising him. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Why, yes. I find hospital chairs surprisingly comfortable for a good snooze. And there's plenty of people wandering around with needles and charts, turning the lights on at random intervals. It's all very restful," he replied. Seriously, did she think he could possibly have slept even for a moment with his head spinning with what-ifs, seeing her lying there all bloody every time he closed his eyes? But then maybe she was too caught up in her own reaction to have thought about his.

She was thinking about it now, though. He saw the dawning horror as she envisioned it all, probably pretty accurately. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

For once in his life, he was taking absolutely no pleasure in being proved right. He wanted to tell her there was nothing to apologize for, but that wasn't exactly true. She had fallen right into the trap he'd warned her about. She was alive only because Red John wasn't done with his game. And Jane had no doubt that when he decided to finish it, Lisbon would fall neatly into whatever trap he devised next. She was too straightforward, too much a cop, to do anything else. He would use her training and sense of duty against her, just as he'd done at that abandoned house.

And then it would all be over. Jane just hoped he'd keep his head long enough to finish his purpose, and then he would stop caring what happened. The sense of impending doom he'd been battling all day crashed in on him again, and he let out a long sigh as he tried to let it wash back out.

"Don't look like that," Lisbon said firmly, and he glanced up at her in surprise.

"Like what?" He was genuinely curious about what she saw in his expression.

"Like we've already lost and you're just waiting for it to be over. We haven't lost. I'll be more careful."

That was what she needed to believe, that she could keep herself safe, so he didn't argue with her. He didn't think Red John would come after her again tonight, so she was probably right, anyway. There was no need to come up with a plan to insinuate himself into her home or sit parked outside her place all night. Especially since he'd spent most of the day pretending to be indifferent to her activities in a desperate attempt to prove he wasn't shaken by what had nearly happened. Or what had happened, for that matter.

He really wished he could think of an excuse to stroke her face again, though. Maybe faking sudden blindness? He felt his mouth twitch at the thought of her reaction to such a blatant ploy.

When he looked at her again, she was regarding him with a puzzled frown, obviously trying to make out what he was thinking now. Then she gave a huge yawn, and he saw his chance.

Getting to his feet, he walked behind her desk, grabbing her jacket. "That's it. You're done. I'm walking you to your car, and you're going home to sleep, and to call me if you can't. I'm going to my motel to get some rest."

She stood up and let him help her into her jacket, then bent to log off her computer. When she straightened again, he pretended to brush some lint off her shoulder, then gave it a brief squeeze. "You'll be all right," he assured her with a confidence he was far from feeling.

"Of course I will," she agreed, even less convincingly.

He took a quick breath to steady himself, then framed her face in his hands, holding her still for a moment. When he was sure she wasn't going to move, he closed his eyes and let his fingertips move over her skin, memorizing her features by touch. Red John might have sullied his vision of her temporarily, but he hadn't damaged the pure softness of her skin or the way her nose twitched when he rubbed his thumb over it. He felt himself smiling. There were still moments of happiness left in his life, no matter how few they might be, and he would treasure this one.

He opened his eyes, still smiling, and was taken aback by how huge her pupils were, as if she were drugged. He read the thought there as clearly as if she'd written it in neon: she wanted to forget what had happened to her, what might still happen to her. There was a devil on her shoulder whispering in her ear that she deserved this, that he owed it to her, that this might be her last chance. He wondered if it spoke with his voice. And he wondered what the angel on her other shoulder was saying. Whatever it was, it didn't seem to be getting through.

He could stop this. One step back, one brush of his wedding ring against her heated skin, would do it.

Or he could lean forward and press his lips to hers, igniting the fire they usually kept down to a slow smolder. After that it would be out of his hands, and he could stop thinking for a while. It was a painfully attractive prospect.

The angel on his shoulder had Lisbon's voice. _Don't you think she deserves better? You use her all the time. Just once, do the right thing for her._

Her breath was fast and shallow, hitting his skin in little puffs and eroding his ability to reason. He swallowed hard, looking down at her wide, shining eyes. It mystified him that she, who knew him better than anyone else alive, could look at him with such trust. She surely knew how little he deserved it. Her love must be truly blind. It explained her vulnerability to him, when she worked so hard to protect herself from everyone else.

He would protect her, even from himself, he resolved. Suppressing a sigh, he stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, then slowly leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

As he stood back, he dropped his hands from her face and stuffed them into his pockets so he wouldn't succumb to the desire to touch her again. He swallowed, watching her eyelashes flutter as she opened her eyes, and when he thought his voice would be steady, said, "I need you to be careful."

She blinked. "I'm not the one he's after. He didn't hurt me."

"But he will. He's coming after me through you. That's what the mark meant, Lisbon. Don't let him."

He saw the fierceness return to her eyes, displacing the fear and confusion and, yes, longing. She would go to any lengths to protect him, far further than she would go for herself. As long as she remembered that he was depending on her, she might be cautious enough to avoid the next trap.

"I won't," she assured him. Her determination calmed him, and he realized that for the first time all day he wasn't seeing the bloody smiley face when he looked at her, but instead his protector. His friend. His love.

He smiled. "Then it's off to bed with you. We'll solve the case in the morning."

"Why don't you just tell me now?" she complained.

"You won't believe me. I need to show you."

She started for the door, grumbling, "Maybe I'd believe you more if you'd lie to me less."

He smirked, but inwardly he winced. He did lie to her, every day that he let her believe she was less to him than she was. Someday soon, though, he would tell her the entire, absolute truth.

He couldn't wait to see her face when he did.


End file.
